


Required Love

by louciferish



Series: Fanfiction for Reproductive Rights [9]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Apologies, Background Victuuri - Freeform, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship, Gen, Podium Family, Yuri Plisetsky vs Puberty, inappropriate aprons, katsudon pirozhki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 14:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20259889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Yuri doesn’t usually have to apologize. Victor and Yuuri always assume he regrets his mistakes later, and they let him off with a light teasing comment or simply pretend it never happened. If it was Victor’s idea to have him apologize formally… it might mean he’s really mad this time.





	Required Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crystara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystara/gifts).

> This is the final charity commission fic for my reproductive rights project!
> 
> My prompt was "Victor and Yuuri supporting Yurio" but I may have delved further into like, Yuri character study than was intended, but here's the thing: I love him. 
> 
> I hope it still carries the original prompt well enough :D

Yuri Plisetsky has been betrayed. He’s only ever had two things in life that he could rely on: his grandfather and the ice. Now, even the rink is out to devour him. He can feel it surge up for him when he jumps. He twists to avoid its grasp, but still it sinks cold, bitter teeth into him again and again—ankles, hips, the palms of his hands.

He gets up again, rubs his fingers quick on his thin black leggings and sees where the hems of his clothes are climbing again, creeping up his ankles and clawing at his calves. Lilia had given him these clothes only months ago, replacing things that had gone too worn in the knees and too snug in the shoulders. He can’t possibly let her notice he needs _more_. 

The palms of his hands are pink, criss-crossed with thin red lines from the cold and the uneven ice. He outgrew his favorite pair of gloves in June, and now it’s August. He’s getting calluses on the heels of his hands from catching himself.

“Yurio!” That damn name again, and Katsuki’s voice—too close. It’s the only warning he gets before the other skater skids to a stop beside him, peering at Yuri’s face. “Is everything okay?”

Yuri wants to stomp his feet. He wants to throw things. It’s the stupidest fucking question he’s ever heard, because _nothing_ is okay. Yuri’s body is sprouting out in every direction like a damned tree, and he can barely land his _triple_ salchow anymore, much less his quad. The Grand Prix season starts in two months, and Yuri will be lucky if he even makes the Final this year. In the ice beneath his feet, his reflection smirks up at him.

Katsuki puts a hand on his arm, and Yuri jerks back so hard he nearly falls again. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me, piggy?” he snaps. “Go root around for help with your outdated old warhorse of a program somewhere else.”

“Yuri!” It’s Victor this time, and Yuri restrains himself from visibly wincing. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse. Before Victor can reach them, Yuri turns and flees, chasing his own shadow to the other end of the rink.

He feels more like a scarecrow than a prima ballerina these days. Even Lilia tuts that he’s too thin, a collection of lines and angles and straw, barely held together in ill-fitting clothes. His grandfather thinks he’s _straining_ himself, and every time Yuri goes back to Moscow Grandpa tries to feed him up and force him to rest, but still Yuri is up at dawn, running in greying darkness through the same alleys other boys had chased him through when he was little. Now, those boys give him grudging nods, or they slink back into the shadows when they see him coming.

Once his pathetic excuse for a run-through is done, Yuri returns to the boards by Yakov to grab his water bottle. Victor and Katsuki are nowhere in sight, but they’d already been on the ice when Yuri arrived this morning, so they’ve likely left for the day.

Leaning on the boards, Yakov scowls at him. “Off the ice,” he barks. “You’re done for the day.”

“What?” Yuri’s barely started his practice—was it that fucking bad?

“You heard me. Part of training is respect for other athletes. No more on-ice practice until you make amends with Katsuki.”

Yuri brings his bottle down on the boards with an echoing _crack_. “Did Victor put you up to this?” Yakov doesn’t answer, his face impassive. He looks past Yuri, out to where Mila is practicing her spins, and just like that, Yuri is dismissed. _Shit._

-

There’s a reason why Yakov uses off-ice training as a punishment—it’s hell. By the time Yuri drags himself back into Lilia’s apartment, his body is already throbbing from toe to tip, both the deep complaint of overworked muscles and the sharp, spiking pain he gets in his shins and arms now—what his grandfather says are _growing pains_. 

When people had warned Yuri that growing up would be painful, he hadn’t realized they meant it literally.

He can’t do another day of this tomorrow, and he knows what that means—he’ll have to tell the pork cutlet he’s sorry for snapping. Before he can second-guess himself, he texts Victor to say he’ll be by the apartment in a little while. Then he tosses his phone onto the bed beside Potya and strips out of his workout gear to hit the shower. The hot water does little to ease the aches in his back and legs.

Yuri almost forgets to look at his phone when he gets out, skimming back into his skinny jeans as he towel-dries his hair with one hand. Potya mews up at him, her big green eyes entreating, and he runs a hand down her spine. When her butt raises in response, it reveals his phone, hiding beneath her fluff. _Right. Victor._ The response is just a string of approving emojis— good enough. It would complicate things for him if Victor was actually pissed enough to tell Yuri no. Despite all the shit in this past year, they’ve never gone to the lengths of uninviting him from their apartment.

But then again, Yuri doesn’t usually have to apologize. Victor and Yuuri always assume he regrets his mistakes later, and they let him off with a light teasing comment or simply pretend it never happened. If it was Victor’s idea to have him apologize formally… it might mean he’s really mad this time.

Potya meows again, twirling in a circle on the bed, and Yuri realizes he’s wringing his t-shirt between his hands like a damp towel. With a huff of irritation at his own stupid brain, he pulls the shirt on, pets the cat one more time, and grabs his boots from the closet.

-

Yuri always feels like he’s being watched in Victor’s building. He probably is—there are security cameras hiding everywhere, after all, but it’s more than that. Victor and Yuuri’s apartment is near the top of a gleaming new high-rise. The building is younger than Yuri is, and he doesn’t want to know how much it costs, but he can guess from the frosted glass decorations and cool marble floors in the lobby. Coming from his old neighborhood in Moscow to this, Yuri always hears the message loud and clear in the echo of his footsteps: _you don’t belong here_. 

He scans the access card Victor gave him months ago at the elevator and holds the door for a woman and her daughter, both loaded down with shopping bags. The woman murmurs a thank-you, but she keeps one manicured hand clasped on her daughter’s shoulder the whole elevator ride. The feeling of being watched gets stronger, but they step out on a lower floor, and the little girl waves goodbye to Yuri as she leaves, tugging the tip of her golden pigtail out of her mouth to say, “I like your kitty shirt.”

When the elevator dings on the fourteenth floor, Yuri taps lightly on the apartment door. Loud knocks always startle Makkachin, but usually a quieter noise won’t disturb her much. He can hear her _boof_ once quietly through the hardwood, and then the door opens and the most _incredible_ smell spills out into the hallway. 

It almost distracts Yuri enough that he doesn’t notice— “What the hell are you wearing?” he exclaims, horrified. 

Victor grins wide, unashamed of the bright red, food spattered apron he’s wearing that reads **Pigatarian** in big block letters. There’s a picture beneath the word, a diagram of the edible parts of the pig and Yuri would just… prefer not to think about this ever again. 

“Darling, Yurio’s here!” Victor calls over his shoulder, and Katsuki’s head emerges from the kitchen as Yuri steps inside, toeing his shoes off by the door.

“Ah, you’re just in time.” Yuuri’s apron reads _May I suggest the sausage?_, and there’s a wholly unnecessary arrow pointing downward. Yuri would like to leave very much right now.

But the whole place still smells incredible. It’s warm and full of light in here, and it feels nothing like the sterile, watchful building lobby. Makkachin is wriggling up against his legs, begging for attention as if she’s not doted on constantly by both her people. Yuri kneels to give her a pat, and also so he has an excuse not to look at _either_ of her dads.

“What smells so good?” Yuri mutters, but no one responds. He looks up from the dog to find that Victor and Yuuri have both withdrawn back to the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, readying himself. He might as well get this apology shit over with. Standing, he goes to join them in the kitchen—and freezes at the edge of the island. “Is that pirozhki?”

Flushed, Katsuki nods, wiping his hands on his apron as he takes it off. “Katsudon pirozhki, actually. It’s probably not as good as your grandfather’s, but—”

“It looks amazing,” Yuri says, grabbing one off the plate without waiting for an invitation. 

“Careful,” Victor says, “they’re still hot.”

But Yuri’s already got a mouthful. His tongue is definitely scorched, but in the _best_ way. Yeah, the dough could be softer—his grandpa’s are always more pillowy and he suspects that Victor didn’t use enough sugar for the yeast, but then the katsudon flavors explode in his mouth, and Yuri closes his eyes, savoring the moment.

“Good?” Yuuri asks with a small smile, and in lieu of answering, Yuri grabs a second one.

Victor chuckles and reaches for his own. “Looks like approval to me. We better start eating too, or there will be none left soon.” 

They pull up chairs to the island and join him, and the kitchen falls into simple silence aside from the sound of Makkachin panting quietly on the floor, hoping for a fleck of rice to drop into her reach. 

Yuri’s reaching for a sixth pirozhki when he stops, hand poised over the platter. He’s not hungry any more. It’s a strange feeling, unfamiliar. It seems he’s _always_ hungry lately, his body clamoring for _more more more_ as it stretches itself thin. He can’t even remember the last time he felt so—satisfied.

On his left, Katsuki is wiping egg yolk from the plate with his fingertip, then licking it off. To his right, Victor rests his head in his hand, elbow propped on the counter, giving Yuuri a sappy smile even as the other man is practically licking his plate clean.

And, Yuri still needs to apologize. His stomach flips, making him briefly regret all the food he just put in it, but he’ll have more regrets tomorrow if he gets to the rink and Yakov still won’t let him practice. Gripping the side of the counter, he opens his mouth—and Yuuri interrupts.

“Oh! Yurio, I meant to tell you earlier—Yuuko sent over a video of the triplets practicing spins. She said you might want to see it?”

Yuri had been _asking_ her for that. Not many people besides Yuuko are aware of the distant fascination Yuri has with her wild little girls. He’s certain one of them is going to end up an international skater—he’s just not sure which one yet, in part because he still can’t always tell them apart. “Sure,” he says, feigning disinterest. “Is it on your phone?”

“On my computer,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “It’s already hooked up to the TV in the living room.”

They migrate in and settle on the couch, and Yuuri pulls up the video. It opens with a wide frame shot of the outside of the rink, the cry of the seagulls audible in the distance, then cuts to Yuuko and the girls on the ice in matching outfits, waving to the camera. 

_Say hi, girls!_

_Hi, Yuri! Hi, Victor!_

The footage is shaky but adorable. All three girls are pretty evenly matched—slow, shaky two-foot spins and tiny single jumps. It reminds Yuri of his own childhood practices, his grandfather leaning on the boards to watch with a fond smile. 

The video has no music, just the rushing white whoosh and slice of blades on the rink. It’s warm in the apartment from ovens and summer, and Yuri’s stomach is more satisfied than its been in weeks. He worms down into the cushions, pulling his legs up to chest as he gets comfortable, and watches through slitted eyes as the Nishigori triplets take turns vying to impress him.

Somewhere in all that, he falls asleep.

He wakes hours later in the darkness, the apartment silent except for a whirring fan pushing cool air through the room. Someone’s draped a sheet over him, and there’s a pillow under his head that he doesn’t remember having when he sat down. 

Yuri rolls onto his side and spots a faint light in the hallway, backlighting a lithe, shadowy figure he recognizes as Yuuri, already dressed in his pajamas and on his way to bed. It flips a switch in Yuri’s brain.

“Hey,” he mumbles, and the blurry outline of Yuuri’s face turns toward him. “Sorry—for what I said earlier at the rink. I wasn’t mad at you, and your program doesn’t suck. I’m just a jerk.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Yuri can hear the smile in Yuuri’s voice when he speaks—quiet and small, but very much there, like a blanket draped over your shoulders at the end of a long day. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay.” Yuri sighs and watches Yuuri turn to go back to the bedroom. His stomach grumbles. “Hey, Katsuki?”

“Yeah?” A pause, hand on the light switch. 

“Are there any of those pirozhki left over?”

Yuuri’s little chuckle lightens the room a bit more. “We can warm up the extras I made in the morning.”

_Good. That’s good._ The light goes out, and Yuri lets his eyes fall closed again, warm and satisfied, to dream of pork and eggs.


End file.
